


Business As Usual

by otherhawk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 14th Century, Angst, Crowley has issues, Crowley needs a hug, Eventual Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, The plague, Unreliable Narrator, Wings, aziraphale wants to help, hell is a terrible place even when you get commendations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: In which hell is a terrible place and the 14th century is a terrible time. After he's attacked by other demons Crowley tries his best to suppress the whole experience like he has so many times before while Aziraphale wants to help him heal.Ch. 4Aziraphale had apparently decided not to leave Europe like he'd said he was going to. In fact he seemed to be sticking uncomfortably close by, despite the fact that Crowley was going out of his way to avoid him. Wherever he went the angel was, at the most, a couple of towns away. And whenever he had to go back down to hell Aziraphale was there when he got back, hovering over him with that look in his eyes, like he was some pathetic, broken bird, looking him up and down like he expected Crowley to be torn apart and bleeding every time.It was insulting, really. He was insulted. He was a demon, he could handle a little pain.Written for a prompt on the tadfield_advertiser kink meme.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley had never been much of a fighter. Oh, he'd fought in the First War, the War in Heaven, and he'd fought in dozens of smaller and far more terrible human wars since then – always on orders, of course – but he'd never really been any bloody good at it. Not when it came down to it. Not one on one, sword against sword, fist against claws, wings against teeth or what have you. He had been created as a builder, that had been his Purpose. A builder and, on a good day, a designer. And now, given the choice, words were his chosen weapon. Words and wits – he was a tempter, a manipulator, filled with guile and cunning.

Words and wits meant very little when faced with a pack of bored demons looking to fuck you.

He grinned at them, his head tilted abruptly to the side and his teeth were sharp when he spoke. “Sssazgoth, isn't it? I've heard of you. Why don't you turn around and walk away while you ssstill can.” He was dangerous, he was a predator....he was bluffing. He was bluffing and it wasn't working.

“Crawly,” Sazgoth, who was large and greasy in a way that sort of put Crowley in mind of a butcher, if said butcher had three pairs of tusks, smirked. “Heard you got a commendation for the Black Death.” He swaggered forwards, forcing Crowley to take a step back until he bumped up against another demon. “We wanted to congratulate you _personally._”

“Yeah,” said the demon behind him, his breath hot and rank on Crowley's neck. “See, we were all set to go up topside and possess a bunch of monks. We'd been waiting _years _for our chance. But now all those monks are dead.” 

“Your little plague got them,” Sazgoth said, trailing his claw delicately across Crowley's cheekbone before hooking his glasses and casually crushing them. “And now we're back to the bottom of the list again. So the way I figure it, you owe us some entertainment.”

They were all around him, pressing in hard. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for any way out. They were in a busy corridor, other demons were pushing by all the time. None of them spared the little scene a second glance. “Come on, you don't really want to do thiss,” he tried. “You ssaid yourself, I jusst earned a commendation. I'm in good with the bossess right now. I could drop a word in the right earsss, ssee if I can get you moved up the lissst.”

Sazgoth grabbed him by the throat and hauled him into the air. “Maybe you could,” he said practically. “But we're bored  _now._ ” 

*

There was laughter. There were hands and teeth, claws and tongues, rubbing all over, ripping all over. Like angels demons were largely sexless unless they made an effort, and these  _fuckers _ had made an effort alright, the sort of effort that wouldn't be physically possible for anyone who bothered to obey the natural laws of the cosmos. 

Greedy hands reached inside his metaphysical space – inside of  _him –_ and pulled out his wings, rutting against them, handfuls of soft feathers being torn up, soiled,  _used..._

He screamed. It was expected of him, and it was hardly going to make anything  _worse, _ and besides he couldn't help it anymore. 

*

Later, as they wandered off, sated for the moment, he concentrated very hard on getting to his feet, on tucking his filthy wings away, miracling his clothes clean. Well. That was over now. And even better he'd already made his report so he could just head back to the stairs and nip back up home....to earth, rather. He'd been staying at a rather nice inn these past few weeks – with a bit of money he should be able to persuade one of the stable lads to haul some bath water for him. Yes. A bath, and a few bottles of whatever the innkeeper kept on the top shelf and he'd be right as rain.

He stumbled slightly and turned it into a nonchalant lean against the nearest wall. Fuck, he wished he had his glasses. It seemed like every passing demon was staring at him with contempt. He tried to smirk back and hissed at the unexpected pain. Oh. Right. Gingerly he ran his tongue across his teeth, poking at the gaps. At one point he'd managed to get a good bite in on one of them, and Sazgoth had torn his fangs out. Bastard had said something about keeping them as a souvenir. 

They'd grow back, he expected. Given time. All of this was just so much bullshit to wade through.

“I hear I missed quite the show.” The voice coming from behind him made him flinch. The hand on his shoulder made him long to crawl inside his own skin and disappear.

“Hey, Troth,” he said, giving a casual wave and turning so his back was more against the wall. Troth wasn't a bad sort, really. He worked in accounting and always wanted to talk about spiders. “Long time no see. I was just heading out. Maybe catch up with you next time, yeah? I'll be on the look-out for any new creepy-crawlies for you.”

Troth gave him a slow once-over. “You know, you should really fight harder if you don't want it,” he said, not unkindly.

“Right.” Crowley bobbed his head a couple of times. “Right. That's...yeah, that's good advice. I'll bear that in mind for next time. Ciao.”

He sauntered away as quickly as he could, each step an unnecessary lesson in agony.

*

It was night when he got back to Earth, which was vaguely concerning. It had been morning when he'd gone downstairs and normally time went faster in Hell than it did on Earth. Maybe it had just taken him longer to climb the stairs than he'd thought.

He felt pathetic. He hurt all over, and it was taking all his power to keep all the damage and filth inside where it couldn't be seen. It wasn't like it was the first time something like this had happened – and really, it was all his own fault. Right from the time of the Fall, when they'd all first dragged themselves out of that lake of boiling sulphur, Hell had been a biting, snapping mess of politics. Everyone was trying to get ahead, to get more power so as not to be a target, and that meant committing whatever acts of violence or terror would prove your dominance.

Crowley had known at once he wasn't suited for any of that. At heart he was a lazy piece of shit, and he was never going to be able to put in the effort to get ahead and stay ahead, and so he'd run away to Earth at the first chance he got and he'd done everything he could to make sure he could stay there. And that would be fine, except he still had to come back to Hell sometimes, and he had no allies there, no political power, no pull, and just enough of a reputation that he made for a good target for those looking to push ahead.

Fuck. The city walls loomed ahead of him and he could see the flickering light of the torches at the gate. It was closed. Of course. If he was human at this point he'd probably be wondering if the Almighty hated him personally. As it was he  _knew _ She did. 

Looking deep inside himself he knew he didn't have any useful miracles left in him. Great, he was going to have to do this the human way. He slouched up to the gatehouse and rapped smartly on the door. “Hello, there,” he called. He'd meant it to sound confident and authoritative but his voice was hoarse and it cracked painfully.

There was silence. He knocked again and eventually he heard footsteps and a grumbling and a small hatch on the door swung open. “Yes? Who are you and what's your business.”

Peering inside he could make out the figure of John, one of the city guards. “I need to get back into the city. I'm staying at the Red Lion. Antonio Crowley.”

“You'll need to wait till morning,” John said curtly. “Don't you know there's a plague about?”

Crowley stared. “It's not anymore contagious at night,” he howled, knowing it was pointless. “Let me in or you'll regret it.”

“Will I now.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. It was only a few hours till dawn. Really, it wouldn't make any difference, but he was weak and he wanted to get somewhere he could curl up and lick his wounds as soon as possible. “Alright.” He reached out blindly, feeling for what the guard  _wanted, _ and pitched his voice low and enticing. “I'll make it worth your while. It's a long, cold night to be on guard duty all alone, right? How about I suck you off so you're not so lonely, and you let me in and we say no more about it?” 

There was another moment of silence and then the door swung open and John ushered him inside, a greedy glint in his eye.

Alright. This was fine.

*

The streets were mostly empty and there were still too many people around for his liking. He kept his eyes fixed on the cold light of the stars above him. On nights like this they seemed impossibly far away. He collided with a couple coming out of a tavern. They were giggling together, arm in arm, and they didn't even seem to notice him. Maybe he was concentrating too hard on passing unseen. Or maybe they could tell he wasn't a real person, not like them.

This was fine. He was fine. Just needed to get back to the inn and get cleaned up, that was all. Not much further. Everything was fine.

It wasn't the same as if he'd been a person. He'd seen a lot of terrible things on his time on earth – the humans could torture each other far worse than demons did, and they actually felt it. Everyone knew that demons didn't have feelings the way humans or angels did. Angels. Aziraphale. It had been a few years since he'd last seen the angel. Not surprising, really, if you thought about it. The world was particularly shit at the moment, there was bound to be loads of things that the angel was busy with. People to heal, lives to save, blessings to dispense – the humans were lucky to have someone so warm and comforting looking out for them.

Warm. Nice to be warm.

The Red Lion inn was at the very top of the hill. He took a deep breath and sauntered in, walking up to Ned the innkeeper like he didn't have a care in the world. “Evening,” he began, ready to ask for booze and bathwater and for no-one to disturb him for the rest of the month, but Ned looked up brightly when he saw him.

“Oh, Mr Crowley, there's a gentleman waiting to see you. Said he was an old friend of yours, a Mr Fell, so I showed him to your room.”

Aziraphale! Think of the angel and apparently he would appear. For the first time today he felt the beginnings of something warm burning inside his chest. It wasn't like he was looking for sympathy or anything like that, but a little bit of good company, maybe a smile and a soft word...he could keep up the act for the rest of the night for that.

He got a couple of bottles of wine from Ned and then eagerly climbed the stairs, his steps feeling so much lighter than they had before. “Aziraphale!” he called out joyfully as he pushed the door open and saw the angel standing there, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out the window.

“Crowley.” The angel's voice was cold, and as he turned around his expression was distraught. Furious. “How _could _you? This is all your fault, isn't it?” 

He felt the world weighing down upon him. “Oh, probably,” he said. “Everything else seems to be.”


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't have any reason to be disappointed. Hoping for a kindly word from the Enemy who was his best friend had always been stupid. Aziraphale didn't know what he'd been through today, and not only would he never know, he didn't need to know because it wasn't a big deal.

And still disappointment tasted like bitter ash in his mouth. He was so tired. So cold. So filthy. "Right, well, I'm not in the mood to argue tonight. So either smite me or get out."

Aziraphale had been frowning at him, but now an almost indignant look crossed his face. "I'm not going to smite you, Crowley!"

He wondered at that bitter taste again. "Alright then. You know where the door is. Don't let it hit you on your way out." He half turned away, keeping the angel in his peripheral vision, unable to stand the feeling of being looked at and equally unable to turn his back and leave himself vulnerable. He wished he had his glasses. He wished a lot of things. But instead he stood in front of the cold fireplace and stabbed through the ashes with a poker, waiting for the angel to leave him.

He didn't. Instead he stood there, shuffling from one foot to the other, and Crowley hated it. "I suppose I was a bit hasty there, it's just...oh, it's all been so horrible. I'd been staying in a monastery for the past few years. The monks were all lovely people, committed to the preservation of knowledge, and not half bad at making wine. I'd got to know them all quite well, and then the plague reached the village nearby, so we all went down to help, of course." He paused for a long moment. Crowley drew a tree in the ashes. "They're all dead now. The villagers too. I buried the bodies... you weren't involved in all this, were you? Were you?"

"Does it matter?" he asked listlessly, and he saw the angel start towards him out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled round, poker raised, ready to defend himself, ready to fight, only to come face to face with Aziraphale hand outstretched, eyes wide.

"Oh, dear," the angel said quietly.

He felt ridiculous, but he couldn't bring himself to relax, or even to lower the poker. As though it would make a difference. He doubted he could fight off a human right now, let alone a determined ethereal being. But Aziraphale wasn't attacking, he'd even taken a step back, his eyes fixed on Crowley's. And that made sense, of course it did, because Aziraphale hadn't attacked him in thousands of years, and even when he _had_ he'd never been trying to hurt. Just a quick death and he'd been back in hell.

"My dear, you're shaking." A snap and the fire was blazing merrily behind him, heating the drafty room far faster than it should. "There, isn't that better now? Why don't you come and sit down and I'll get you a blanket and a nice warm cup of something."

A choked laugh forced it's way out from between his teeth. Sitting was the last thing he needed to do. Sitting would make all that pain he was holding back real again. Even just thinking about it he could feel blood trickling down his inner thighs. No. He gritted his teeth until the feeling went away.

Aziraphale gasped. "Your teeth...Your mouth, dear, what happened!"

He shrugged and spoke moving his lips as little as possible. "Demon stuff, that'sss all. Not anything for the armies of Heaven to worry about." The poker was heavy. He dropped it. Let his arm fall. "You're still here."

There was horror in Aziraphale's eyes. He didn't like seeing it there. It didn't belong there. It was too close to disgust, and that was too close to hatred. "Oh, don't look like that," he pleaded wretchedly. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your friends, and I'm sorry about...about this," He gestured roughly at himself. "Just, let me make it up to you. I'll owe you a favour. Buy you lunch. Whatever you like."

"I want you to let me take care of you," Aziraphale said quietly. "You're not well. You're hurt."

He shrugged irritably but stood his ground as Aziraphale drew closer and reached up to his face. "I'm fine. It's fine. Always fine."

There was a feeling in his mouth where Aziraphale's hand hovered. Like a cold compress that took away the pain and somehow left endless warmth behind. "There we go. I can't actually do anything about your poor teeth, but I hope that helps at least."

He wasn't going to say thank you. He hadn't asked for help - he didn't owe anything. "It's fine. They'll probably grow back in a few months - that's what happened last time, anyway."

Aziraphale paused in the act of summoning up a damp cloth. His hand was shaking slightly. "Is it?" he asked, carefully dabbling away the blood from around Crowley's face. "What - Oh!" He froze.

They both looked down at the cloth. Oh. Right. That wasn't blood.

"Right. That." He gave an airy smile. "Funny story, that. Got back to town after curfew and I had to give the gate guard something to get inside. Well, I suppose I didn't have to, but you know me. My bed was calling me. It was a good temptation. Lust, gluttony and sloth, all for the price of one."

He'd wanted to get them back to something normal. He'd been expecting the disgust, but not the depth of it. Normal would be Aziraphale calling him a foul beast, or something, not that dawning horror. "That's not a funny story. That's not funny at all."

"Fine." He shrugged again. "Maybe you had to be there. It's not like they get damned to hell just by touching me, you know. Filthy demons aren't contagious."

Something was wrong. He'd crossed some line and not even noticed, because suddenly the room was ablaze with righteous wrath. "No, he's damned for taking advantage of innocent people! And he'll deserve it!"

Everything in him was screaming to run or fight. But he couldn't just let that go. "Oy!" He stabbed a thumb hard against his own chest. "Not innocent. Not a person."

The light dimmed and he could see his friend again. “I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, looking distressed and brushing his hands down his lapels. “I got a little carried away there. I should be focusing on you. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Oh, that...that was pity, wasn't it? No, he wasn't standing for that. “I'm not hurt,” he said stiffly. “Look, angel, this has been... _nice_ ...and all, but I think it's time you left.” He took a couple of steps forwards, trying to push Aziraphale towards the door. 

Aziraphale stepped back, not willing to let a demon into his personal space, but still kept protesting. “Oh, now, I really think you should reconsider. Crowley, you need help - “

“ - I don't need anything,” he spat, bristling. “I'm not weak. Get the hell out.” He could tell by the stubborn tilt to Aziraphale's lips that he wasn't going to listen, and that wasn't fair. He couldn't take any more of this. He needed to be alone. He needed to be safe. He leaned forwards, forcing himself into the angel's space and grinned savagely. “You know, it's a good thing your monk friends died when they did. You never know when a bunch of demons might just pop up to earth and possess them. That would have been a laugh, wouldn't it? You'd be amazed the sort of fun we can have with a bunch of holy men.”

He could imagine the look on Aziraphale's face. “Really, there's no need for that sort of talk.”

“Get. Out. Angel.” He barged past him and pulled the door open and waited on tenterhooks until Aziraphale shuffled past.

“Please take care of yourself, dear one.”

With the door closed and locked, he closed his eyes for a long moment before grabbing one of the bottles off the floor, draining it in a single gulp, and falling face first onto the bed. Sleep. He would sleep. Maybe things would look better when he woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up with a jolt and for a moment he lay tense and unmoving, nightmares still clinging to him, the taste of smoke, rot and death on his tongue, his fingernails digging deep into his palms. It was still dark but the light from the fire was playing across the walls. He watched it for a time, focusing on taking deep, even breaths. There wasn't nearly as much pain as he was expecting and he was still lying on the bed. He was safe. Fuck, he was safe.

Carefully he tried to sit up and found something heavy weighing down his wings, tangled in them. For a moment he panicked, struggling, flapping until he realised that it was just a heavy blanket...except when he'd fallen asleep his wings had been tucked away, and there hadn't been any blanket. He scrambled up quickly, putting his back to the wall and looking round the room wildly.

Aziraphale was sitting at the desk across the room, a pile of manuscripts in front of him visible in the dim light from a stubby candle. He was staring, and when he realised Crowley was staring back he gave an awkward little wave. "Hello."

Right. He took a deep breath. No immediate danger. Of course not, what kind of danger gave you a blanket. Angels, apparently. Angels gave you blankets and sat and watched you sleep, and he didn't know what to do with this. Fuck, he was tired. If Aziraphale wasn't there he might just go back to sleep. `He scrubbed his hands across his face. "Why are you here? You left."

"Ah, well, no." Aziraphale looked guilty. "I didn't, actually. I was just going to wait about for a few days in case you needed me, but then I realised you were having one of your naps, and you hadn't set wards or anything, and well, that was my fault, wasn't it? Distracting you. So I stayed to make sure the humans didn't...bother you."

He felt his shoulders hunch. "I don't need protecting," he snarled.

"Yes, well. I'm sorry." Aziraphale somehow managed to look guilty and unrepentant at the same time. "But you were asleep three months, Crowley. I was...I was _worried_."

Three months. That explained the lack of pain. Injuries inflicted by other demons were harder to just miracle away, but they did heal over time. He must have slept right through the healing process. Good trick, that. He was almost impressed with himself.

"I don't know how you can sleep like that," Aziraphale went on fretfully. "I couldn't wake you up no matter what I tried, it was awful."

He shrugged absently, poking his tongue around his mouth. Oh, that was a relief, his teeth were back. Great. That was that then. All healed up, just like nothing ever happened. "Sleep's great, angel. It's like you get to just close your eyes and stop existing. If I had my way I'd never wake up."

There was a moment of silence. The flickering candlelight cast dark shadows across Aziraphale's face and his smile was a tremulous thing. "I'm very glad you're awake, dear boy."

Odd thing to say. He frowned. "You been drinking, angel? I'm sure you'd get much more done without having to thwart my wiles, as it were."

"Yes, but I..._like_ thwarting,” Aziraphale said, looking at him pleadingly, like he was asking for the moon. “When it's you, I mean."

"Right.” He didn't know what to say. He wanted things to be normal. This wasn't normal. He turned his face away and struggled to his feet. “Anyway, drinking seems like a good idea. I'm heading to the bar."

Aziraphale stood in a rush, getting between him and the door. Crowley tensed and didn't take a step back.

"That's not a good idea, I'm afraid." He bit at his lip apologetically. "The plague reached the town about a month after you'd fallen asleep. It's not good out there. A couple of the servants fell ill, and they barricaded everyone inside the inn and set fire to the place. I managed to keep this wing standing, but that's about it.”

Oh. He sat down heavily on the bed. The smoke and death hadn't just been in his dreams then. "It really wasn't me." He'd taken the commendation though. Smirked like it was his by rights, and if it was then so were the curses of all the humans dying horribly and blaming demons or the Almighty, and so was Sazgoth and his crew working out their frustrations. Can't steal the credit without accepting the consequences.

He rubbed his thumb over the blanket mindlessly. It was a deep red colour with black flowers. Very soft and very warm and definitely not something that had been in the room before. He wondered where Aziraphale had got it from. It wasn't the angel's usual style, but it didn't have the tell-tale lack of depth that objects miracled out of thin air usually had.

"I know it wasn't you." Aziraphale hovered, just far enough away to be out of reach.

"No you don't," he pointed out bitterly. "You thought I'd killed your monks. Everyone thinks I did this. No one wants to think the world is really just that shit."

Aziraphale sighed and gingerly sat down on the other side of the bed, still a safe distance away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blamed you. After all this time I should know you better."

No, no, no, this was wrong too. Everything was wrong and he just wanted to run away and hide. He tried out a smirk but kept his eyes carefully fixed on the opposite wall. "I don't blame you for assuming. Who else are you supposed to work out your frustrations on, the humans? Not very righteous, is it?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly, loudly and he didn't jump, he didn't because he was a demon and everything was normal. "I'm sorry. Here." He held out something towards Crowley.

Slowly, unwillingly, he turned to look.

It was a pair of dark glasses.

"They're a bit clumsy, I know," Aziraphale babbled when he didn't immediately take them. "I know you prefer them made by humans, but I had to use a few miracles to put them together. All the materials are real enough, though. Just what I could scrounge up, as it were. Finding the glass was the real tricky part - I didn't want to use anything from a church just in case."

Crowley wasn't listening. Slowly he reached out and took the glasses. His hands were shaking slightly as he put them on. At last he turned to look at Aziraphale and he wanted to say... He didn't know what he wanted to say. He couldn't say what he wanted to say. "I suppose it's easier. Not having to look the filthy demon in the eyes," he heard himself say instead.

Aziraphale smiled at him. "I like your eyes, dear one. But I know you're more comfortable keeping them covered."

He was. And this took some of the sting out of having been so vulnerable.

"Listen, I've been thinking of heading out of Europe for a couple of decades," Aziraphale went on quickly, his words uncharacteristically falling over each other. "Maybe going and checking out the Majapahit Empire. I've heard some very interesting things about what the humans are doing there. Lots of art, lots of literature, and the weather is so much nicer. And I was hop...thinking, that maybe you might follow me? Try your hand at thwarting some holy wiles for a change? What do....what do you think?"

Vulnerable. He had been vulnerable. He had been lying here for three months with the angel watching him. Three months was time enough to heal. Given time his corporation could heal itself even without him consciously trying.

It couldn't  _clean_ itself.

He'd miracled his clothes clean but he hadn't been able to do anything with his injuries other than hide them. Underneath he'd still been bleeding. Still been coated in the filth and slime those demons had left him with. His wings....His wings had been a fucking mess. Ruined.

He stretched his wing as far as he could and twisted round to look at pristine, impeccably groomed feathers.

"What did you do?" His voice was unrecognizable. There was blood thudding in his ears. He'd been asleep. He'd been vulnerable. And Aziraphale had...he'd seen. He'd Known. Hands on his wings. Inside him. Touching. Possessing.  _"What did you do?"_

Aziraphale met his gaze. Guilty. Unrepentant. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't just leave you like that. You were so badly hurt, and you wouldn't wake up - you were still bleeding, Crowley. I thought you were going to die!"

"Then you should have let me," he snarled, on his feet because he couldn’t stay still a second longer.

Aziraphale was standing too, his voice raised, his eyes damp. "You would have gone back to hell! I couldn't let that happen, not knowing you'd be right back -"

" - I would rather be back in hell than to have you..." Than to have you looking at me like that. Than to have you Know. Than to have you  _see me_ . He couldn't say any of that. He threw his hands in the air. "Fuck you, angel."

"Right." Aziraphale's face was pale. "Well, then. I'm sorry if I did the wrong thing. But I only wanted to help."

"Fuck. You," he said again, the words coming from somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere even more ugly and twisted than the rest, and then summoning up all his desperate will he reached out and stopped time with a snap, and then he ran.

He ran as far and as fast as he could to get away before the world caught up. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos or commented on this story so far. I really hope you like it.

Time passed like it always did. The fourteenth century continued to be fucking terrible and Crowley did his demonic best to make it just that bit worse for everyone concerned. It was like pissing into the wind though. If he didn't have to report back in to hell he'd just kick back and not bother, but as it was he continued doggedly on, a whisper here, a few carefully engineered coincidences there, and he was encouraging pride, envy, greed and gluttony, all while indulging in sloth whenever he could. Mostly he was spreading misery and frustration, and as, always, that could drive the humans to  _anything. _

It was rotten work. But it kept him busy. 

Aziraphale had apparently decided not to leave Europe like he'd said he was going to. In fact he seemed to be sticking uncomfortably close by, despite the fact that Crowley was going out of his way to avoid him. Wherever he went the angel was, at the most, a couple of towns away. And whenever he had to go back down to hell Aziraphale was  _there _ when he got back, hovering over him with that  _look _ in his eyes, like he was some pathetic, broken bird, looking him up and down like he expected Crowley to be torn apart and bleeding every time. 

It was insulting, really. He was insulted. He was a demon, he could handle a little pain. More to the point, he was  _clever;_ he wasn't letting himself get cornered by other demons every time he had to pop downstairs. That time with Sazgoth had been an exception, not a rule - that kind of encounter didn't often happen more than once every couple of centuries. Maybe he could try to explain that to Aziraphale, but every time he saw that look – every time he saw pity-it was so much easier to spit cruelties and run and hide.

He never thought about any of the shit that happened to him in hell. It was just – stuff. It happened and he buried it deep so he never had to think about it, except now every time he saw Aziraphale, every time he saw that  _pity, _ he remembered the feeling of flesh on his wings, of being possessed. It made him feel sick every time and he tried to burn the memories out with work and wine. 

Gradually the world got a little better. He celebrated the end of the fourteenth century in a bar in Florence, waking up three days later in an artist's studio with a hangover, three empty wine bottles, a flower crown and an excellent sketch of himself in snake form. There was a lingering aura of angelic grace in the air and the same thick red blanket with black flowers that had been covering him in the inn all those years ago. Bloody angel couldn't leave well enough alone. He pretended he could miracle the ache in his chest away. 

He took a walk down across the Ponte Vecchio and along the river, shivering slightly in the crisp dawn air. Winter. He'd never been a fan. Awful weather, no sun to speak of, and the humans were often hungry and miserable. If he thought he could get away without anyone noticing he'd probably just hibernate every year. 

From the riverbank he heard a noise – not quite a scream, but something that might have been one given half a chance, and he was running towards it before he'd thought about it for half a second. Call it infernal curiosity – his first failing. 

He skidded down the mud and saw a group of men standing around something – someone – struggling on the ground. Someone struggling, kicking, while the men held her down, hands on her arms, across her mouth, pulling her dress aside...

The sound of their laughter sparked something inside him. Shame. Fear. Fury. A shiver ran up his back, across the lines of his wings. He gritted his teeth. “Oy!” he called, swaggering towards them, determinedly. “Get off her and leave her alone.” 

They turned towards him, still holding onto the girl, and the two at the back drew their daggers and started towards him. 

He grinned, letting his teeth lengthen, and just for a moment his face flickered, shifting into a terrible snake. “I  _sssaid _ leave her alone,” he hissed. 

The two leapt back, screaming, and the others let go of the girl and drew weapons of their own, none of them moving towards him, none of them willing to be the first to run away. “Back, foul demon!” one of them yelled. 

“If I had a florin for everytime I heard that.” He flicked his forked tongue across his teeth and snapped his fingers with a feeling of deep glee and satisfaction. The men vanished in an instant. Crowley could see considerably further than a human could, and well out of the city and three miles straight up he could see them appear and drop _screaming._ “That's better,” he said with a smirk, and cautiously he approached the girl. “Uh, hello? It's alright now. They've gone.” 

She was sitting up now, her arms around her knees, holding her legs tight against her chest. There were deep scratches across her face and arms. She was crying and she wouldn't look at him. 

“They've gone,” he said again, trying not to sound impatient. “Come on, let's get out of here. I'll walk you home. You'll be fine now, trust me.” 

There was a sound behind him, a thump and a yelp, and he turned to see a man lying directly behind him, the sword in his hand sticking straight through his leg, a bloodied rock lying by his head. 

“You missed one,” Aziraphale said, picking his way delicately down the bank towards him. Concern was painted across the angel's face. Crowley felt his heart skip a beat it didn't even need. “He'd been keeping watch for them. You need to be more careful, my dear boy.” He crouched down in front of the girl, holding out a hand but not touching her, and Crowley could feel the soothing pulse of divinity. He took a step back. “Hello there, my dear. My name is Aziraphale. Can you tell me your name? What can I do to help you?” 

“Sarah,” she mumbled, her eyes fixed on the ground. “My name's Sarah. I didn't mean to...I was just taking a short cut...” She was shaking. He felt sick and he turned away and walked a little further along the bank, eventually leaning against a wooden post, making an effort to look at his hands and not look back. He failed. 

The angel and Sarah were sitting on a miraculously materialised bench now, the angel speaking to her softly. Kindly and gradually she responded until they were deep in conversation, heads bent together. Crowley stayed well back, out of earshot, feeling like he was intruding. Aziraphale had taken her hand now, holding it comfortingly between his own. He was probably reassuring her that it wasn't her fault. That it was okay for her to be upset by this- which of course it was. She was human.

His tongue flicked over his teeth uncomfortably. Maybe he should leave. Maybe he should just walk away and keep walking like he had before and see how far he could get. 

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale called, and as always when the angel called he came running. Or, well, strolling quickly in this case. The man Aziraphale had hit with a rock and stabbed with his own sword was stirring, moaning slightly. “Would you mind putting him with the others?” 

Wordlessly he snapped his fingers. This time he didn't bother looking. 

“Ah, thank you. I promised Sarah that we would walk her back home.” 

“You don't need me,” he started to say, but Aziraphale interrupted.

“_Both _of us,” he said meaningfully. “Apparently she would feel safer with you. Since you fought off six men to rescue her and everything.” 

Ah. Apparently Aziraphale had taken it upon himself to do some judicious memory altering. 

“Thank you, kind sir,” Sarah said, her voice and eyes low.

He winced. “Don't. Please. Come on, let's get you home.” 

They walked in silence which seemed to last forever, even though thankfully she lived barely round the corner. They watched her go inside in silence and Crowley just  _knew _ that Aziraphale was going to say something about him being  _good _ or  _kind, _ and he just wanted to sink into the street and dissolve away to nothing. 

“I was wondering,” Aziraphale said instead. “If you would like to come back to mine for a spot of breakfast.” 

“I don't eat,” he said shortly. 

Aziraphale nodded. “I have a rather nice bottle of Riesling I've been saving,” he offered hopefully. “It makes an excellent breakfast wine.” 

It was so absurd he found himself laughing until he was choking on it.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale was apparently staying in the finest set of rooms in the best inn in Florence. Or at least he was  _now_ . Crowley was fairly certain that had been miraculously - and hastily - arranged right around the time that Aziraphale had realised he needed a place to lead them back to. Not like he minded. Honestly, he might even be a little flattered that he was apparently worth the angel inconveniencing whoever had been in the rooms before.

He made a point of stalking around the room, inspecting everything to check it was up to his exacting standards before collapsing down across a low sofa. (near the fireplace, sure, but more importantly against the wall so no one could get behind him and with a clear view of - and easy route to - the door.)

Aziraphale set a large platter down on the table beside him and dragged over an upright armchair which he perched on primly.

Crowley eyed the platter, recognising most of the foods on it. Those little poached duck eggs from Gaul, the honey cakes from Rome, the fried dough things he remembered from Mesopotamia...all foods that he had, in fact, actually eaten in Aziraphale's presence over the years. He sighed. "Alright, but I was promised wine.

"Of course," Aziraphale smiled, snapping his fingers and pouring them each a glass.

It tasted as good as promised. He took a honey cake to be polite. "Not quite the same as I remember."

Aziraphale shrugged. "The cook had to work with what was in the kitchen. More or less. I was just feeling a little..."

"Nostalgic?"

"Apologetic."

"Don't." He dropped the cake like someone had blessed it, and took a certain demonic satisfaction in the way crumbs scattered across the floor.

"Right then." Aziraphale's face did something complicated. "You're not going to get in any trouble for today, are you?"

He drank his wine and waved a languid hand. "Nah. Hell doesn't mind if I kill a few humans along the way. If anyone noticed they won't even think to ask." If anything they'd just assume that the humans had been in the way, or offended him somehow. Which wasn't exactly inaccurate.

"But you don't normally. Kill them, I mean.”

Yes, but that was him, not hell. He shrugged. "Can't be bothered, really. If it comes to that, how come you don't have a problem with it?"

Aziraphale looked at him, his lips pressed tightly together. "If you hadn't happened along they would have violated that young lady, and I'm sure she wasn't the first. If anything I've ever said or done gave you the impression that I would have a problem with giving rapists a good smiting I can assure you you were mistaken."

He flinched. "You're talking about more than one thing at a time again," he said harshly. "Stop it."

"My dear, I'm hardly responsible for what you infer," he said with a sigh. "Mmm. You simply must try these duck eggs. They really do taste remarkably like the ones we had in Alesia. Before the siege, I mean."

"Well, it couldn't have been after," he pointed out. "No more ducks for one thing." He didn't take one, but he drank more wine, watched Aziraphale's enjoyment, and wondered what he was even doing. "I've missed you."

Aziraphale froze, hand raised to his mouth, and it was a second or two of awkward, awful silence before he resumed chewing and eventually swallowed. In those moments whatever passed for Crowley's soul burned and he waited for the snide reminder of just who had been avoiding who, or worse, the always-ever-so-gentle reminder that they were on opposite sides and shouldn't even be meeting, let alone missing each other. He didn't think he could stand to hear that right now. Didn't think he could bear -

"I missed you too," Aziraphale whispered, looking round furtively, like they might have missed Gabriel lurking in the corner, like they hadn't both put up wards to avoid any and all surveillance. "I hate fighting with you."

He gave a short huff of laughter. "Angel, that is literally your job."

Aziraphale didn't look at him for a long moment, his hands shaking as he poured another glass of wine and drank it all. "Yes, but that's...that's just work, really, isn't it? I mean, you and me are...." He trailed off, his eyes wide and beseeching. "Right?"

He wondered exactly what words Aziraphale was thinking that he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. It didn't matter; Someone help him, he'd take it. "Right."

"Right," Aziraphale echoed, the relief shining clear on his face. "I was worried because...look, I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but I think we can agree I overstepped my bounds. I had the best intentions, but I hurt you more, and that's unforgivable."

His knuckles were white around his wine glass and the only reason it didn't explode in his hand was that in that moment it wouldn't dare to. "You didn't hurt me, I'm a demon, I don't get hurt. And certainly not by you doing something daft like cleaning me up."

"There are other hurts besides physical ones, Crowley."

He scoffed. "For humans, maybe. And angels. People with feelings."

A wine glass hit the floor and broke into pieces. “Is that what they told you?” Aziraphale demanded in a whisper. "_Is_ _that what you tell yourself_?"

It was true. It was true. He swallowed hard. "Demons don't have feelings like you do."

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale's hand was hovering over his and he didn't know whether he wanted to reach out or pull away. In the end he did neither, but he balled his hand up into a fist, his nails long and cutting into his palm, and eventually the angel moved back. "I'm sorry," he murmured, subdued, then raised his chin and went on. "And it's not like I'm setting myself up as an expert on demons, and I wouldn't presume to tell you how you feel, but I am an angel, and I can sense emotions, and I've known you well over five thousand years now and I've never thought that you feel things any less than I do...Or than the humans do, for that matter."

“You're right,” he said coldly. “You're not an expert on demons and you can't tell me how I feel.” The words spilled out of him. “And you did overstep your bounds and I don't forgive you.”

Aziraphale looked pained, but he nodded. “Of course. Would you...do you mind if I heal your hand?”

He looked down; blood was dripping down his wrist from where his nails had dug in. Fan-bloody-tastic. With a sigh and a gesture the bleeding stopped and the cuts sealed over. “I'm not helpless, you know.”

It was something of a balm to his pride to see the genuine surprise on Aziraphale's face. “Of course not, I would never _dream..._I'm not worried that you can't take care of yourself, Crowley, I'm just...a little concerned that maybe you...don't always want to, or don't know you're supposed to.” 

He could maybe argue that from an angelic standpoint he wasn't supposed to, that as one of the Fallen he was supposed to be, well, damned. But the wretchedness in Aziraphale's voice caught at him, and he couldn't bring himself to make the angel more miserable. “Ngk. I just don't get why you care about this. It's not a big deal, it's just demons being demons. Normally I'm more careful but that time I fucked up a bit. But it's over now, and the only one making a fuss about it is you. I don't care, I'm fine.” His voice cracked and he winced, mortified, and drained his glass. “I'm fine,” he said again.

For a moment Aziraphale looked like he wanted to reach out to him again. Crowley wondered if he was holding back because of Crowley or because of himself. “My dear, what those monsters did to you was awful. Horrifying. And it was in no way your fault and I'm so sorry that you've been going through this alone. If you tell me you're fine I'll accept that, and I won't ever mention any of this again if you don't want...but if...it it should happen again, then you can always come to me and I won't ask any questions if you don't want me to.”

He was shaking. He was shaking and he couldn't stop. “No, it's...it's just the way things are. It's not...I'm not...I can't...” He looked up and the world was blurry, swimming in a dark fog, and there was Aziraphale, bright, shining and untouchable. “Pleassse,” he said, holding out a hand. “Pleasssse, I'm sssorry...”

Immediately the angel's arms were around him, holding him close, holding him safe. “I'm here. You're safe now. No need for sorrys, you've done nothing wrong. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm anotherhawk on tumblr if anyone wants to come talk to me there. :) Otherwise please let me know what you think. One more chapter which I should be posting in a few days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never intended to take so long to finish off this story, this chapter has been almost finished pretty much since the last one was posted, but I've been struggling with my depression more than usual and have lost all motivation to write.

Crowley was buried in soft white feathers, keeping him warm and keeping him hidden. On some level he was aware of time passing but he let it go, his head full of starlight. Somewhere Aziraphale was whispering words of safety and protection, and he couldn't believe them, but he let them wash over him, listening without hearing.

Eventually he came back to himself, aware of his head tucked in against the angel's neck, the angel's arms wrapped around him.

“Are you back with me, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as he pulled back, averting his eyes.

“Hrngh,” he said, non-committally, “What time is it?”

He could feel the angel beaming at him. “A little before tea-time. Oh, but we've been here three days.”

He tensed. He'd been hiding in Aziraphale's wings for three days? Fuck. He ducked his head. They might not need to eat or sleep, they might be immune to the muscle aches and pains that a human would suffer from, but sitting in the same place for three days would be just as boring for them than it would be for anyone else. “I'm sorry.”

There was a pause. “For what?”

He shrugged awkwardly. “You shouldn't have to - “

“ - I _don't _have to, Crowley,” he interrupted immediately. “But I want to take care of you, in whatever way you can allow.”

“Hrngh,” he said again. “I don't _need _taking care of.” He'd been doing just fine burying all his feelings down where he couldn't see them. But still he should be saying thank you and that just wasn't going to happen. “This caretaking thing isn't part of our little Arrangement.”

There was another pause and he felt Aziraphale's wing cautiously brushing against the back of his neck. “Neither was the time you rescued me from that arena. Or that time in Ur with the copper merchant. Or that dreadful time during the Second Crusade. I could go on if you want.”

“Most of those were before the Arrangement,” Crowley objected.

“I think that just proves my point, dearest.”

The tone was gentle. He shuddered. “It doesn't change anything you know,” he said abruptly. “I'm still a demon. Still going to get caught up in demon stuff. Hell's just like that.”

Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment, still kneeling in front of him. “It wasn't an official punishment, then?”

“No, just a fight, if you can call it a fight.” He tried for nonchalance and made the admission they both already knew.” Fighting's not really my thing.” It wasn't really Aziraphale's 'thing' either, but _he _was good at it. Even without his flaming sword he was strong and well-trained. No petty demons were going to hurt _him, _and angels didn't go in for that sort of thing.

“Is there anyone you can complain to?”

His brain ground to a screeching halt. “Com..._complain?_ In Hell?”

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale said, colouring lightly. “I thought you were popular down there, surely your higher ups want to keep you,” He hesitated, gesturing vaguely. _“Safe.”_

“Let me just imagine that.” He put on a flawless version of Aziraphale's voice. “Oh, excuse me Lord Beelzebub, some of the other demons are picking on me, would you mind punishing them?”

“There's no need to be like that,” Aziraphale said crossly.

He sighed. “Safety isn't exactly a concept that Hell encourages. No one is ever safe.”

“You're safe with me.”

He knew what Aziraphale meant, knew, _believed, _even, that Aziraphale would never want to deliberately hurt him, but he couldn't let that pass. “When I'm with you neither of us is safe, and you know it.”

Aziraphale sat back and carefully studied his nails. His hands were shaking. “If it would be better for you then I could stay away.”

“It wouldn't be better,” he said immediately. “Not for me.”

“Well it wouldn't be better for me either.”

“Fine then. We'll just carry on.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, and then immediately. “Wait, no. Not good. There must be_ something_ we can do. I hate thinking of you down there.”

“Don't think about it then.”

“Crowley.”

“I'm serious.” He leaned forwards. “Don't think about it. That's what I do. Things happen and I deal with it and move on. It's not normally that bad anyway. It's only been like that a few times.”

“It shouldn't happen at all!”

He raised an eyebrow. “The damned shouldn't be punished in Hell?”

“It's _wrong._” Shocked, Aziraphale covered his mouth with both hands. “It's wrong,” he said again, his voice muffled. “Crowley, you don't deserve that. No-one does, but certainly not _you._”

“Careful, angel,” he warned, suddenly tired beyond measure. He stood up and found the wine they'd been drinking and poured himself another glass. It had been sitting out for three days but he carefully refused to consider that might have affected it and so it didn't. “Don't go questioning the plan.”

“I refuse to believe that rape and torture are part of the plan.”

“Oh, I don't know. They've been very popular ever since the humans invented them.”

Aziraphale's face fell. “Was it really the humans?”

He found himself snarling, felt the wine glass shatter in his hands. “You really think I would - “

“ - _no!” _The glass reformed in his hand, the wine refilling slowly._“_No, Crowley, of course I don't think that. But you're not the only demon out there, dear one.”

He wasn't. He drained his glass. “Violence was always popular downstairs, right from the start. But formalising it, adding the sexual stuff, well. We learned that from watching them.”

“They did,” he said fiercely. “Not you.”

He smirked, a bitter taste in his mouth. “I learned to lie there and take it.”

Aziraphale made a soft, wounded noise. “None of this is your fault, Crowley.”

“It feels like my fault,” he said, his shoulders hunched. “'m a demon, so I deserve it, and I'm not...” He swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was full of raw glass. “I'm a bad demon so I can't stop them.”

“That's not true, you're a very good demon. Or...um.”

He laughed, short and choked. “Yeah. I know what you think.” He leaned against the wall, carefully not looking at anything. It was cold, or at least _he_ was cold, and he twisted his hands together, holding himself back from reaching out. He missed the warmth of Aziraphale's wings.

“I wish there was something I could do to help,” Aziraphale said, coming to stand beside him, and for a moment Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had somehow heard what he'd been thinking.

He shivered slightly. “You did help,” he said, not looking. “You do. I'm safe with you.”

White feathers curled across his shoulders. He leaned in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think.
> 
> The ending to this one is a bit open-ended, because it can't exactly be fixed without either a time-skip or making it AU. But it's intended to be hopeful. Some day I might write the sequel where Sazgoth comes to Earth and encounters the wrath of Aziraphale.


End file.
